What did it matter?
And, oh, it was so true--so true.
Every day and all day I was thinking of my love; every hour and all hours she was before me with her sunny hair and young, young face.

Her wistful eyes were gazing into mine continually.

Their wistfulness I had never realized at the time; but now I did; and I saw it for what it seemed always to have been, the soft, sad, yearning look of one fated to die young.

So young--so young! And I might live to be an old man, mourning her.
That I should never love again I knew full well.

This time there was no mistake.